Page 20

Jane’s mother bowed her head modestly. “I believe I can speak for Mr. Hadford when I say that we all look forward to hearing your sermon on Sunday, sir.”

“Thankfully, no, Mrs. Hadford. We shall not be burying someone on Sunday.”

“Hearing your sermon,” Mrs. Fossum screeched.

Mr. Fossum ignored her. “We did have a child die of influenza in the village a few weeks ago—but it was an isolated case, I’m happy to report—and he was not buried at the High Brodmore church. The family has a plot in a neighboring village, I’m told.” He shook his head sadly. “Always difficult to lose a child, no matter the circumstances.”

“Yes, indeed,” Jane’s mother said, offering the couple a stilted smile. This conversation was well outside her mother’s sphere of comfortable topics, and before the ensuing silence lengthened too long, Mrs. Fossum took another step toward the door. Thankfully, her husband followed.

“It was lovely to meet you and your daughters, Mrs. Hadford,” she said with a polite bob of her head.

“Good day, ladies,” the vicar added with a benign smile. And then Mrs. Fossum took his arm and whisked him out of the room.

“Well,” Jane’s mother said. “That was far more taxing than it should have been. Quite honestly, I fail to see how a vicar can function properly if he cannot hear half of what his parishioners say.”

Phoebe dropped back into her chair. “And Mrs. Fossum’s piercing voice is enough to put a saint on edge. Truly. I am not sure which suffered more: my head or my ears.”

Jane studied her with alarm. “Are you not well enough for our outing, then?”

“Oh, Jane.” Her sister groaned. “I had forgotten that I’d promised to accompany you to the village. Would you mind terribly if we postponed it until tomorrow?”

Jane minded a great deal. It felt as though she had been waiting weeks rather than days to accomplish her errand for Lord Bloxley. She’d sought out the housekeeper, Mrs. Wilson, the very day they’d arrived at Charwell Park and had asked about Mrs. Stanley. The housekeeper had been most helpful—informing Jane that Mr. Stanley was the village butcher and that the family lived above his shop. When Jane had learned that the butcher’s shop was only a few doors down from the village milliner’s establishment, it had not been difficult to persuade Phoebe to accompany her on the excursion. Every day since then, however, something or someone had prevented them from making the trip.

“Would you mind if I went without you?” Jane asked.

Her mother looked instantly aghast. “Really, Jane. You know better than that.”

“I would not go unaccompanied, Mother,” Jane said, wishing for about the millionth time since her accident that she were still allowed to take a horse and ride with only a groomsman in attendance.

“I should say not.” She frowned. “I still do not understand your burning need to explore the village. We shall be at Charwell Park for the foreseeable future. I do not imagine that the locale will experience much change over the next few weeks . . . other than an improvement in the weather, perhaps.”

Due to the sensitivity of her errand and in deference to Lord Bloxley’s privacy, Jane had not told her mother or her sister of her real reason for wanting to visit the village. And as someone who usually preferred to remain within the seclusion of her home and its grounds, her persistence regarding this outing would soon raise their suspicions unless she could come up with a reasonable explanation for not delaying it.

She glanced through the window. The skies were overcast, but the white clouds did not suggest imminent rain. “That’s just it, Mother. I overheard Mrs. Wilson talking to the gardener who brought in the daffodils and tulips for the flower arrangement in the hall. He said that the forsythia bushes on the village green are in full bloom. I think his exact words were, ‘They are a sight to see.’” Jane smiled at the memory of the craggy man’s reverent assessment. “But the ache in my leg portends a storm, and if it is sufficiently severe, it will ruin the blossoms.” She clasped her hands, the excuse she’d devised becoming more desirable the longer she thought on it. “I should very much like to see the forsythias in their prime. I can’t help but think that they would make a worthy subject for a painting.”

Her mother pursed her lips. “Really, Jane. You and your painting. If it weren’t that you were so gifted with a brush, I would force you to spend equal amounts of time developing other talents.”

“I think that may have been a compliment,” Phoebe said, a hint of mischief in her eyes. “And as I am still required to divide my time between several activities, I believe Mother is yet searching for my elusive talent.”

Only her mother’s censorious look prevented Jane from laughing out loud. Phoebe may not be able to draw much beyond a stick man, but she danced beautifully, fashioned the most exquisite creations with her needle, and excelled in every social setting. For a young woman in want of a fortuitous match, those things were far more important.

“Nonsense,” their mother said. “You are exceptionally accomplished, Phoebe.”

“You are very kind to say so, Mother.” Phoebe winked at Jane. “And to facilitate my ongoing efforts to improve, I shall soothe my ringing ears with the silence of my needlework while Jane hunts for artistic inspiration in the village. I am sure there is a maid who can be spared to accompany her on a short outing.”

Her mother glanced at the outlook through the window. “Very well. But I expect you to return at the first sign of rain.”

Relief coursed through Jane, and she tightened her grip on the chair. Keeping her true motivation for visiting the village hidden did not sit well, but if she could spend several minutes viewing the spring blossoms on the common and produce a painting of it afterward, all would be set right. “Thank you, Mother,” she said.

Her mother nodded. “Have Alice fetch your bonnet and shawl, and then she can go with you. I will ask Gresham to call for the carriage.”

Jane did not have long to wait. By the time both she and Alice were ready, the carriage was parked outside. Gresham assisted her down the three shallow steps of the house to the gravel drive, and the driver helped her into the carriage.

“To the village green, if you please,” she said.

“Very good, miss,” the driver said, waiting only until Alice took the seat across from her before closing the door.

He moved away to take his position at the front of the carriage, and Jane took a deep breath. She was finally on her way to High Brodmore, but the hardest part of her self-assigned task was yet to come. Anxiety tightened her chest, and she grasped for something mundane to distract herself.